


Keeper of Ghosts

by TheLordMockingbird



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Black Arts, Blasphemy, Blood Magic, Curses, F/F, F/M, Gen, Ghosts, Harrenhal, Haunting, Human Sacrifice, Other, Tourney at Harrenhal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 04:24:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6359203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLordMockingbird/pseuds/TheLordMockingbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had begun to be present to him after the first fortnight, it had branched out with its dark tendrils, with the oddest abruptness, this particular wanton wonderment: it met him at every turn and hall which he wandered -- and it would be an outright lie if he said he was not thrilled and flushed with it, the passage of the strange figure just beyond his corporeal vision, this unexpected occupant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

It had begun to be present to him after the first fortnight, it had branched out with its dark tendrils, with the oddest abruptness, this particular wanton wonderment: it met him at every turn and hall which he wandered -- and it would be an outright lie if he said he was not thrilled and flushed with it, the passage of the strange figure just beyond his corporeal vision, this unexpected occupant. 

Petyr did not fear her appearances like the servants did. He didn't change the pace of his stride nor cry out in fear (he did not fear, as a rule) instead he respectfully let this apparition, void of form follow him on his progresses through Harrenhal. At near every hour, this spectre quite hauntingly remained with him, as long as he was alone. It came to him in a dream during a brief span of rest he allowed himself, that this ghost was a 'she' though she was as shapeless as the night sky. A Lady of Harrenhal from days long passed. Or mayhaps older than that and Harren Hoare had built his behemoth seat right on top of her barrow. That she belonged here more than he, Lord Petyr was certain, with that certainty came the respectful truce betwixt his castle seat with its spirits and his occupation of its halls and galleries. There were still rooms and alcoves he had yet to discover and his spectral Lady of Harrenhal was his guide. Her cold, black and shapeless hand guiding him, ensuring him opening a door behind which he would have thought of finding nothing, a door into a room shuttered and void, disused for decades and yet occupied with a great suppressed yet comforting presence, something planted in the middle of the place and facing him through the dusk. The Ghost of Harrenhal gave him her secrets.

___________________________

 

In the months since relocating to Harrenhal, Lord Petyr could not fathom why anyone had believed it to be haunted. He had no trouble from its spirits, in fact he slept better, thought better and profited better since taking residence behind its charred walls. But when he needed to take his leave for the capitol on several occasions, servants had gone missing, hedge knights and sellswords found bloodied in the Flowstone yard. Perhaps its ancient hurts had found a home within the new liege's soul, only calming whilst he paced its cavernous halls.

And Lord Petyr did not mind it, playing keeper to lost souls. A smug satisfaction arose whenever someone in the King's council seemed disappointed his titles had not yet consumed his ambitions or his life. The Queen Regent for instance, her looks of anticlimactic sorrow as he'd approach the council table to report on the crown's debt after a long absence at his new seat. It was priceless. 

Reconstruction and refurbishing efforts began at once. By time he'd occupied the broken castle for three months; the bear pit had been filled in and replaced with a small orchard, Hall of the Hundred Hearths had gone under a more colorful transformation with King Robert's old tapestries and new ones commissioned from Myr telling tales on every wall, the Tower of Ghosts in its most ruinous state had been razed with its bricks reused for a new more solemn lichyard and the Kingspyre Tower was nearly finished with its reconstruction, having a new nickname bestowed upon it at well...Birdsong Tower, for it had begun attracting the prettiest of roosting songbirds since Lord Baelish's arrival. It was in this largest of towers that the new lord dwelt untroubled and whole, unlike his predecessors. Had he been a different sort of man, he might feel guilty for living free amongst its ghosts where others had failed and died in doing so. He felt nothing here, but power.

Only a fraction of his monetary accumulations were spent restoring Harrenhal to its former glory. And Harrenhal thanked him. Only a fraction was needed. His wealth had grown by leaps no usual financier could wrap their mind around. He had investments everywhere, some he'd even forgotten until reports came in from their minders. But all this positivism aside, Petyr was still haunted.  
It just wasn't Harrenhal that did the haunting. It was auburn hair wound with summer blooms, fish the color of the setting sun running upstream and away from his hooks, its was Riverrun, it was scars and favors ungiven that haunted him still. But not Harrenhal.


	2. The Smuggler

He awoke to the gray light of dawn as it crept overeagerly through the sheer curtains in his chambers. His head was pounding but he had not drunk overmuch the night before. His loins ached in the good way that comes from a night abed with a skilled courtesan yet no such lady had been brought to bed by him the night before. By all his waking assessments, it seemed he had quite the raucous night, yet he knew he had not. Petyr rose and slipped on his robe, the stone floor icy on his feet. He tossed a log on the embers of last night's fire, not patient enough to await a servant. He was needed at the capitol again, but not by orders of the King. This time, it was best no one knew his business.

The fire was roaring again as Gerold, his attendant entered to draw a bath and set out his clothes.

"I'm taking my leave for a while, Gerold. I can't say how long I will be but pack a trunk of my necessities at least. Oswell will be up to fetch them shortly. And have Pia be sure the Lady's chambers are well outfitted and ready."

Gerold left to the adjoining room to do as he was bid. Harrenhal had such an abundance of rooms, Lord Petyr had allocated one chamber for his burgeoning wardrobe of finery. He was a man of elegant and extravagant tastes. He scrubbed and dressed in charcoal woolen trousers with a silk tunic in a bright plum and a brocade doublet in a similar though darker shade. He broke his fast on bacon and bread with honey and by time his appetite was sated, Oswell had joined him.

"Today is today the day, milord. Are you certain she wants to leave?"

Petyr smiled but it did not reach his eyes.

"Quite certain. My last visit, she begged me to take her away but it wasn't time yet."

She was Lady Sansa Stark. Daughter to Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully. Traitors to the crown, their daughter was held as a hostage by the vicious boy king, Joffrey Baratheon. Petyr had been planning for months to smuggle her away but it had to be done just right. He was the King's Master of Coin, Harrenhal had been a gift for arranging the marriage between the King and Lady Margaery of House Tyrell. An act of treason such as he had planned would spoil everything if not cautiously carried out, least of all the head he carried proudly upon his shoulders. As he left the ruined castle's gates he muttered a futile command in jest to its ghost:

"Try not to murder too many of my servants and swords whilst I'm away this time."

~

He arrived in Maidenpool, a stranger. Taking a page from the Eunuch's book he had used a smudge of mummer's paint to conceal the silver in his hair and mussed it into close wiry curls. He removed his mockingbird and traded his usual demeanor and style of dress for something more foreign, distinctly Braavosi. It wasn't hard, the Secret City was in his blood. 

In a once bustling but now beleaguered harbor town such as Maidenpool, a foreign stranger was noticed but not noted beyond a casual nod. He bought a tankard of foul wine he did not intend to drink at the Stinking Goose with Free Cities silver pieces and gave a false name when asked and waited and waited. The Stinking Goose is oft frequented by sailors and those who wish to pass through unnoticed onto ships and likewise, Lord Baelish went unnoticed. It was well past the noon hour when Ser Lothor arrived to retrieve him and bring him to the Merling King. His trunk and other belongings were loaded aboard the ship and by sunset they were departing for the Blackwater Bay.

The city was a flurry of activity, it was obvious even to the occupants of the Merling King as tucked away in the night as it was. Petyr imagined the Gold Cloaks were scouring the city of filth after the day's rioting. Rioting he had carefully planned. Rioting that should have culminated in Sansa and the King's disappearance and later, the latter's death. Petyr hoped it would be a slow and painful death but a shout from the water below woke him from his thoughts. Moments later, a frighted and disheveled Sansa Stark appeared at the top of the rope ladder. Petyr rushed to help her, arms embracing her comfortingly.

"Are you hurt, my lady?"

A timid response in the negative put him at ease and he wrapped his cloak around her. The man who rowed her to the ship was paid in crossbow bolts through the heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short transitory chapter.


End file.
